


Hot Green Sun

by bjfic_archivist



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Angst, Canon, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-12-29
Updated: 2005-04-05
Packaged: 2018-12-27 10:35:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 21,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12079341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bjfic_archivist/pseuds/bjfic_archivist
Summary: Justin is 24, single, and meets a kindred spirit. Will he find his way back to Brian? Of course he will, it's the BJFIC site!  This story was written from earlly cannon.  I am making some revisions.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note from IrishCaelan, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Brian_Justin_Fanfiction_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in September 2017. I posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/bjfic/profile).

In the Store

It isn’t on his usual route home. Maybe that’s why he hasn't noticed the little stairway that lead under the walk-in beauty shop toward a glass door with a green sun painted on it. A green that Justin can’t quite describe, but somehow seems familiar and makes him feel at ease. It is the green paint that callshim down the stairs--a green sun that is burning and calming at the same time. 

As he pushes open the door, he enters an unimpressive little store with low ceilings and dark walls. Dusty boxes of broken tile and colored glass guard each side of the door. Thrown around in what would be described more as piles than rows are boxes of oils, acrylics, pastels, charcoals, and watercolors. Rolls of canvas are leaning against the walls and thick, rich paper is lain flat in unorganized stacks everywhere. Strips of wood and little cups of nails sit on counters and high window ledges. Empty frames and stretchers are piled into the back corner. Rows of virgin brushes, fans, and other tools line the bookcase on the back wall. Easels formed from dark woods jut out like headstones amid the clutter. The strong smells of fresh paint, turpentine, and linseed oil wash over him and he closes his eyes to store the memory. 

The door closes behind him and the city is shut out and all that remains is this place. The poor lighting makes it clear that this is not a studio or gallery. Justin gazes at the art supplies. His eyes roam the tiny room. _Where is the shopkeeper? Am I alone?_ He bends down and fingers a calligraphy pen that seems to have fallen off its ledge. He rolls the pen in his hand noting the weight and balance. _Smooth. Silky. It is perfect._ The most perfect pen he has ever held. He lets his portfolio case slump off his shoulder and fall on the floor next to the door. As he places the pen back on the counter he picks up a card and reads: _Hot Green--_ the name of the store, _David Hammond--_ owner.

He steps forward, oddly excited about browsing the shop in silence—the proverbial kid in the candy store. He runs his palms across some of the papers on his way to the back wall. Standing in front of the brush display, he grazes his fingers over several smooth wooden handles admiring the grain. His thumbs fan some of the stiff bristles. He pulls out a softer variety of brush and studies the handle for a price and a maker, noting neither. He blows lightly against the brush. Then, closing his eyes again, Justin uses the bristles to softly tickle his full bottom lip. His mouth opens slightly and his lips tighten into a smile from the action. His checks flush. He opens his eyes, looking around again to see if he has been caught in such a curious ritual. Seeing no one, he replaces the brush.

The heavy metal door at the back of the store opens and light streams in from the back alley as a young man with paint stained hands wearing thin blue coveralls emerges. Justin freezes. His eyes train on the man. Justin immediately begins his checklist, a scoring system that he created back in his Babylon days. _Thin. Not too tall._ His eyes adjust to the brightness, but he still can’t make out the features. _Profile good. Ass, check. Strong jaw. Lean neck._ Walking out of the sun and into the darkness, the man makes his way to a shelf full of spray cans, grabs two, and compares the colors in the light at the still-open door. Justin catches a glimpse of his pale eyes. Dark curly hair, it’s messy and a little long. _Definitely beautiful._ Justin’s breath catches as the man’s tongue pushes against the corner of his mouth. He tries to speak, but no words come. The man shifts both cans in his palms and walks back out into the alley without noticing Justin.

The back door closes with a bang and Justin steps out of the shadow of the bookcase. He remembers himself and quickly exits the store through the glass door with the hot green sun.

 

In the Alley

Outside, David continues to work on his latest piece. Proud of his creation he steps down from the milk crate that he was using as scaffolding. He loves what the mix of sand, spray paint, and fire is doing on the large pain of glass leaning against the brick wall in the alley. Studying the glass, however, begins to make him uncomfortable. Cold somehow. The longer he stares, the more he feels that the painting is saying something to him—no, something about him—something that he did not intend. _Lonely._

 

Justin’s Studio

Justin takes the stairs two at a time on his way back to the studio that Lindsay has been letting him use since he and Brian ended whatever-the-fuck-they-had. By the time it had ended with Brian, it was too late to go back to PIFA but his life dream was still to be an artist beyond the comic book. He has been coming to the studio every afternoon for two years now, but in the last month he has not completed a single painting … not one sketch. He is twenty-four years old and feels all used up. Today, however, he has found some inspiration. Maybe it was that place, the store, like a child with a new box of crayons. 

Justin fishes out a new piece of charcoal from a canvas bag hanging off his easel. He breaks it in two and admires the clean edge before he begins to make short strokes on the large gray page. Moments later his true inspiration emerges from the page… wild curls, amazing eyes, delicate hands, oversized jumpsuit dotted with paint. “Hello, David,” Justin sighs as he looks into the eyes staring back at him.


	2. Hot Green Sun

The Green Sun  
PART 2: Obsession

 

Lindsay’s house

Lindsay drops her keys onto the counter and looks around the kitchen. Toys and mail are scattered through the living room. Raising a child by herself has been a challenge. Having to work full-time and transport Gus has left her exhausted. She doesn’t have enough time in her day. She hates to admit to herself that she looks forward to these weekends that Gus spends with Melanie. Finally, she gets a break and catches up on some of the things that fall by the wayside in her busy schedule, like cleaning the house. She hates it more when the weekend is over and she realizes that all she has done is caught up on sleep.

She decides that for the next two hours, she is going to reserve some time to do the things that she loves, before heading back in to the single-parent routine. Over the last two years the only place that she has found that she can just be Lindsay, not mommy or lesbian crusader or gallery director or teacher or taxi, is in her attic studio. It had been more than a month since she had last visited her sanctuary. She heads upstairs to her studio and shuts herself in. 

She sees one of the paintings that she has been working on for a while now leaning against the wall. She recognizes that the paper that is clipped to the easel now is not something that she has done and smiles to herself thinking that Justin must be drawing again. She is not prepared for what she sees when she walks around to face his drawing. A Portrait. Justin rarely did portraits. The subject is in an awkward position that makes him seem to be moving toward her. The tilt of his head, the wildness of his hair, and something about his eyes makes Lindsay find him very likeable. Not being able to keep her professional training from influencing how she views art, she immediately accesses that the sketch was not drawn from a live model or photograph. It has a dreamlike quality to it. Whoever his subject is, and she feels like she knows him somehow, she is glad that Justin is drawing and thinks that this piece is the best thing he has done in a long time. Lindsay takes the paper and decides to hang it in her office during her next show. She turns her attention to her own piece. Two hours pass and she has not touched the canvas.

Justin’s Apartment

In his small room, Justin lays against his pillows with a sketchbook propped in his lap looking at his hands and thinking about the man from the store… again. He flicks a blade over the end of his pencil and begins to draw the features once again. He gives into the memory and resigns himself to filling a second pad with drawings of the man. 

“I have to stop obsessing,” he says to no one. In the past months he has taken to talking to himself. Sometimes voicing his familiar inner dialog seems to fill the space of his tiny apartment and make it feel less lonely. Over the last two years, Justin has acquired a basket full of tricks to keep him from opening himself up to another man. As any gay boy knows, one way to end a crush on a dark handsome stranger is to actually talk to him. Chances are he will not be such a dream outside of Justin’s head. 

So Justin plays out how his next meeting with David will go. He practices his conversation and draws up his list. A chef and alcohol leads to better tips than the dinner and he moved on with his “career” shortly after the break-up. He told himself that he wasn’t hiding, avoiding having to face Brian and the gang. He told himself the same thing when he traded going to Babylon for volunteering at the GLC. He told himself the same thing when he and Daph moved into an apartment and his life moved in paths that did not include walking on Liberty Avenue, even though he had to walk a block out of the way sometimes to avoid some of the old places. On his way home from the restaurant where he works, he will not bypass Liberty today, he will stop by the odd little store and buy some oils, he will talk to David, and he will stop the fantasies. 

Hot Green

It is a hot September day. Most of Pittsburgh is relishing the warmth, storing it up for the fall and winter to come. The sun drives them out onto the sidewalks to soak it up, before it hides from them until spring. To Justin, the crowded streets and sidewalks are silent as he replays all of the possibilities for how the meeting could go. He arrives ten minutes before closing… he hates himself for timing it so that if David is the man of his dreams, they can close up shop and run away together happily-ever-after. 

When he pushes through the glass door with the green sun he feels the familiar choke. Not what he expected. Not what he practiced. He stands frozen, feeling like two hands are squeezing his lungs, staring at the man before him. Brian.

Brian’s long legs prop him against the edge of a stool behind the counter. Pale blue t-shirt. Pale skin. He looks soft somehow. Head bowed gazing at his hands that are playing with the perfectly balanced calligraphy pen. David is crouching over a box in the back of the store. Justin doesn’t notice him until Brian speaks. “Leave it, you can finish that tomorrow. We are going to be late. Let’s go.”

“We have a customer. You could help him you know.” David answers, nodding in my direction. No matter how still Justin is, he curses that he cannot be invisible at this moment. One foot slides behind him involuntarily wanting to run, to escape. In the tiny piece of a second he cannot deny that he has been hiding.

Brian’s head moves slightly, “I wondered when you’d come back.” He states as if Justin’s presence there was expected and his reasons obvious, like Brian has been waiting for him to walk through the door. He pushes himself off the stool and pulls something out from under the counter.

_Back? Back to Liberty Avenue? Back into your life?_ A million questions. Justin’s careful plan crumbles into his hands along with his crush. “Huh,” Justin chokes out, the hands tightening around his lungs. 

“For your case, David found it here a few weeks ago.”

Justin stares as Brian holds his portfolio out to him. Motionless. Minute passes. Mind racing, taking it all in. Two. Trying to piece together what is happening. Or maybe just a second. Justin extends his hand and takes the object. “Yeah,” he manages. 

Then David is behind Brian, snaking his arms around his stomach. Propping his chin on Brian’s shoulder casually. Smiling easily. “So you are Justin,” he says. “Brian has told me a lot about you. Your work is really good. I couldn’t help but peek. Hope you don’t mind.” His words seem real, not forced, not rehearsed. Justin is hurt by the thought that David may know—know it all, but isn’t threatened by him. 

Justin feels the slow burn coming from his chest into his cheeks. Everyone seems perfectly normal in this little scene. He is still frozen. Doesn’t speak. Forces a small toothless smile and nod toward David. David and Brian’s eyes jump between each other. Brian drops his eyebrows a little, like he is trying to read Justin. 

“Can we help you with something else?” David asks kindly. Exit. Thank God.

“No, no. I just came to get my case. You are closing anyway. I don’t want to keep you.” Heels. Turn. Push. Sucks in two lung fulls of warm September air. 

His chest shaking his tears cooling in the hot wind, Justin rounds the corner and begins to run. Run back to his hiding places. “Fuck.” He says as he enters the apartment and let’s his portfolio case slump off his shoulder by the door. He looks at the case as it hits the floor. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”


	3. Hot Green Sun

Lindsay’s Gallery

Lindsay greets David with a warm two-handed shake before leading him into her gallery and showing him the large room at the side that she has reserved for him to display his work over the next month. She is good to the local artists by showcasing someone new each month in a section of her famous gallery. David thanks her again for her generosity. He tells her that he is eager to set up for his show and has several pieces in his car that are ready to hang. It is mostly photographs and mixed medium pieces that he is known for among the tiny population of people in Pittsburgh who actually care who is known for those kinds of things. Still holding his hand with her own, she pulls him through the current exhibits, encouraging him with her best success stories. 

As they make their way past her office, David notices the portrait hanging above her desk. He freezes, resisting Lindsay’s urging. Lindsay follows his eyes through the wall of windows of her office and toward Justin’s sketch. How could she not have seen? Lindsay mumbles and staggers a bit, trying to find some way to explain this away gracefully. But it is no use. They are looking at a drawing of David. A drawing by someone who is pining for David. David’s lips curled slightly into a smile before he asked, “May I have it?”

“Of course,” Lindsay replied not moving to open the door and retrieve the painting. 

David nods slowly. Shakes his head. And walks back to his car to get his work. His opening is in two days. As he works with leveling and lighting and arranging, recreating the layout that he had gone over in his head a thousand times since Brian told him three months ago that he would be Lindsay’s featured local artist for October; his mind stays on the painting and on Justin. He wants to laugh out loud as he thinks about how jealous he had been over Justin when he first learned about his past with Brian. How at first everything he did seemed to trigger a new memory about Justin for Brian. How he sulked when he first saw a painting of Justin’s still hanging in Brian’s loft. How one night Brian had left him without a word sitting in a restaurant after he had ordered jambalaya and he knew it had something to do with Justin. How mad he had been when he found Justin’s case in his store a few weeks ago. How sure he was that Brian still loved Justin. How sure he had been that Justin still loved Brian. And now, it would seem, that the real cause for Justin’s fumbling and rosy cheeks is that Justin is attracted to him! His face hurts with a wide smile as he muses that Justin had probably came to the store to cruise him. Surely Justin already knew about his connection to Brian. Brian certainly couldn’t escape little Justin updates from the community wherever they went. They knew where Justin worked and that he was acting as a mentor in the teen group at the GLC. They knew he wasn’t in a relationship and had heard about him picking up a few tricks from a local park that was a hotspot, or at least a warm spot. 

His opening came and went without event. Brian had stood by his side, ever present, ever patient. Obviously proud of him. Content to not push him. All of his friends came, most of Brian’s too. His family had been there. His mother had cried and Brian had patted her hand. A few people from Kinnetic, a couple of people from the street, but mostly it was just a small group of the invited. Brian had taken him out for desserts and coffee after it was over. He had kissed him tenderly, slipping his tongue and the taste of sweet coffee into his mouth. Afterward he had pressed his forehead to David’s, he had closed his eyes, and had told him that he loved him for the first time. David’s breath caught in his throat. He ran his fingers through the hair behind Brian’s ears and breathed, “I love you, too.” 

Not long after the opening, David found himself not able to push the drawing out of his mind. He kept it rolled in a container in his storeroom. The edges were beginning to tatter because he had taken it out to study it so often. He relished the way that Justin saw him. That the blonde thought he was beautiful and dreamlike. He appreciates the imperfect likeness and recognizes the attention that the artist had paid to capturing his eyes true-to-life. As “famous” as David was among the locals, Justin was known for his comic. David used to obsess over every drawing in the published pictures, memorizing the positions of Rage’s legs and how Rage clung to JT. He was so jealous of “Art by: Justin Taylor” that after a while he vowed not to open the new editions, even if he was in Michael’s store. But portraits, Justin was not known for and right now, David can’t think why. Justin had drawn him with feeling and passion. As an artist he wants to know—needs to know--more about the blonde. Yes, that’s it, David tells himself. 

Restaurant

Two days later he finds himself across town seated in a booth at Justin’s restaurant--or rather, the restaurant where Justin works. He requested his table. The hostess took his drink order. Now he has to wait and breath. _Must breath._

Justin sees David in the booth. He could switch tables, but somehow he finds himself. No use hiding. He comes up to the table acting like he does not recognize his customer. After all, he has only seen David once for about two minutes in a dark little shop. It is entirely reasonable that he would not recognize him. They had hardly spoken. “Do you need a minute with the menu?” Justin asks in his most waiter-like voice.

“Justin, I’m Brian’s friend, David. I run an art supply store on Liberty. We met the other day but I don’t think we were actually introduced.”

So much for the not-recognizing-treat-you-like-a-stranger plan. So he is here to talk. Justin decides to open, keep things on his turf. “Yes, I remember you. I’m sorry that I didn’t recognize you before. I knew there was something…” He let his sentence trail off, say less, more believable. Justin trying again, “If you are here to ask me not to come back to you store, I understand. I really didn’t know about the two of you. I am very happy for you… that Brian has found someone.” There. Now what else really was there to say. 

Silence. David’s face did not change. “Actually, I came in to ask you to come back… to do me a favor.”

_No. No. No. Whatever it is, no. I don’t owe you anything. I don’t owe him anything. I owe it to myself to never see either of you again. Please, please, no._ “Anything,” Justin says smiling. 

Hot Green

Justin is looking at the acrylics in the large box to his left. Anything but look at David. Counting the colors. _Viridian Hue. French Ultramarine. Permanent Alizarin Crimson. His mind goes to Ross reruns. Focus on the happy little trees. Why am I here? Why am I doing this? I must be crazy? I must be crazy. I must be crazy._ He undoes the last button on his shirt. “You can leave your pants on for now.” _Fuck._

Justin looks at the man in the blue jump suit in front of him. Justin remembers that David is beautiful, but can’t remember his crush right now. Right now he is standing striped to the waist on a tarp in a corner of the dark little store that David reserves as his studio space… being painted. No. Not a portrait. Apparently he was the only one drawing portraits of anyone in this fucked up little group, not that any of them survived after he returned to his apartment after seeing Brian again that day. But he had actually agreed to let David paint his body and then photograph him in front of some glass mural he was working on. And he only asked Justin because he knew that another artist would understand. _Fantastic. Fuck._

David has several jars of mixed grease paint and watercolors and brushes on the tarp. A lot of greens, cool blues, some grey. Suddenly Justin can only describe the color in the terms of a ten-year-old. David toes off his shoes and joins Justin on the tarp. Using a calm voice he explains what he is going to do, step-by-step, again. As if the words will somehow calm the blonde, or him. Like a fourteen-year-old at the gynecologist. 

He stirs the paint some more. Taps a brush. Stirs some more. He can’t seem to look at Justin. Justin feels sorry for him, for no reason at all. 

“It is ok. Let’s both just acknowledge that this is uncomfortable, more so than any live study class that either of us has ever taken, so we can get through it.” 

David meets his eyes and smiles. They both push a little breath out and smile again, this time a little wider. Weird. It felt weird to smile. David raises his brush to the corner of Justin’s mouth and strokes downward toward his chin. He continues.

It isn’t cold in the room. But the wet paint drying on his skin causes him to chill. Justin’s nipples harden from the brush being stroked over his neck and jaw. Then his cock. _Fucking fantastic._


	4. Hot Green Sun

David continues to make slow, short strokes over Justin’s skin. Justin notices that some of the paint is warm. He wonders if David thought about what that would feel like when he applied it to Justin’s neck and chest. He seems to alternate and mix the cool blue grease watercolors with the luscious green grease paint that almost burns Justin’s skin. Justin looks at David, the way his eyes roam over the surface of his skin, the way his mouth slacks open while he paints. The blonde knows how lost the artist is right now and allows his mind to wander further into what he is experiencing. Justin imagines wax melting over his skin as he feels some of the paint run down his stomach. Just as the stream of paint nears the low-slung waist of his jeans, David laps it up with a long flat stroke. Justin is again aware of the erection growing behind his jeans. He is pretty sure, by the quick look up into his eyes, that David is aware of it now as well. 

David clears his throat and reaching for a stray curl wipes paint from his hand across his forehead. Justin is relieved when he turns around to pick up another container of paint. Ignoring it. It is a good plan. 

“Don’t worry about it, I am practically licking your entire body. It would be odd if you didn’t respond.”

_Just shut up. Please, let’s not talk. This will be so much easier if we don’t talk._ Justin is determined not to respond. Maybe if he doesn’t answer, this won’t really be happening.

“Turn around, I need to get the backs of your arms and your shoulders,” David says in his most professional voice his back still to Justin. He can’t look at him. He can’t look into those eyes or at that mouth and be that close to him. It is one thing for Justin to be aroused by this, yet another thing for his coveralls to be sporting a tented front. He hates himself for being attracted to this man, for feeling like the little corner is cloudy with his sex and lust. He can’t help but recognize how beautiful Justin’s skin is. How warm and soft and touchable it is. How it dips as the brush caresses his body. This was not the plan. _Get back to the plan._

“I don’t hate you, you know, because of Brian.” Justin closes his eyes as the words float across his shoulder warming the cool blue paint. 

_And it begins._ Justin remains silent, jutting his chin out to signal that he had heard David’s little message. _Let’s get it over with. Tell me everything you need to say._

“I used to hate you. I hated that you had come into my shop. I hated that Brian loved you--loves you--in a way that he won’t love me. In a maddening, proud, simple way.” Breath. I think we both needed a breath after that little confession. Justin keeps easy long breaths trying to keep his bare chest from revealing how hard his heart is beating. “But I don’t anymore. Because now I know that if there had not been a you, Brian would have never been able to have me. So I guess I have to thank you.” 

_Thank me. Bullshit you want to thank me._

“Thank you for breaking his heart and walking away. Thank you for not coming back to pick up the pieces. We both know that he wouldn’t have let you anyway. Because somewhere in there, Brian grew up and got over himself and over the rules he held over you. He could have never given up the rules for you.”

_Okay, now that hit a nerve. Don’t tell me about my relat… what-ever-the-fuck. Since when are you the Brian expert? That expert used to be me. I like to think the expert is still me._

Silence fills the corner. Not that comfortable silence between partners, not the excited silence of a drive home after meeting someone. Just silence. Justin hopes this means that the little talk is over with. He questions whether David is giving him a chance to respond. He resolves not to. 

Silence. There is something else to be said. Justin can tell by the way David is standing there with a brush still against the back of his arm. Justin turns his head to see David with his eyes closed. _Say it._

Then in a whispered voice, as quiet as the dawn, David speaks. “We haven’t had sex.”

“What!?” Justin says a little too loudly.


	5. Hot Green Sun

David doesn’t know how to respond. He certainly won’t say it again. He feels the burn creep up his neck and into his cheeks. Red patches of embarrassment. He curses his skin. He tries to force back the blush with a clenched jaw.

“Please tell me that I am not here to give you pointers on how to seduce Brian,” Justin says turning his head over his shoulder to look at the man standing behind him. _How the fuck have you not slept with Brian?_

“No, nothing like that. I just thought I’d tell you.” He pauses. “So you’d know.” Pause. “So you wouldn’t think—I know you probably assume…” His eyes shift up and down meeting Justin’s eyes only for an instant before darting somewhere across the room. “We just don’t have sex. That’s all.”

“That’s fucking all?” Justin says in disbelief. David begins to think that he has two heads. The way Justin is looking at him, he must have grown another head. 

“It isn’t that he doesn’t want to… that I don’t want to….”

“So what is it then?” Justin cuts him off. “Because I fucking know you aren’t saving yourself ‘til marriage.” Justin watches as the red blotches creep up David’s forehead. He is almost purple. “Oh. My. God.”

“Knowing your gay doesn’t mean that you have to be promiscuous,” David mumbles.

“Are you sure?” Justin asks smiling. _Oh! My! God!_

Justin waits for David to offer an explanation, hoping that he won’t give one. He doesn’t need to know. He really doesn’t need to know. He waits. He won’t ask.

David offers nothing more and his brush begins moving again. The paint has cooled on his brush and Justin’s skin breaks out into goose bumps across his chest, tightening his nipples in the paint.

Justin keeps his eyes down, the lids slipping over half. He watches the baggy legs of the artists blue jumpsuit circle him once... twice, as he continues to paint. Still no more words. The brush slows again, a little too much pressure. _Here it comes._

“He was your first, wasn’t he? They said he was your first time.”

A swirl of memories flood Justin. He can’t remember the first time… how he felt. He used to be able to remember every word. Every fluttery feeling. Every movement. Every kiss. The sandpaper scratching in his ass for days. He thought that he could never forget. But a million fucks finally ran together and now he can only recall what it was like to be with Brian, in general. The sex was always great and the fucks ran together. A few were special… romantic… even loving… but they are all filed away in Justin’s memory under one label. Tap into the file and Justin can bring up the experience that was Brian in an instant. 

“He was my first.” Justin says aloud. He is impressed by how much of a statement it is. Not a bit of dreamy air in it. It is true. Brian was his first. His first everything. But he has now had a second… and a third… and the first isn’t so important anymore. 

“And you loved him.” It wasn’t a question. Not one that Justin was supposed to answer anyway. “I know that you were in love. Brian said that you had been in love.”

“Not the first time. The first time I was just a fuck.” Justin says. It doesn’t hurt to admit it now. And he can admit that he wasn’t in love that night either. He was overwhelmed. He was nieve. He was annoying and persistant. What was the phrase again… oh yes “An annoying little shit.” 

“What?” Justin looks back at David. _He does know Brain’s lifestyle. I am not going to give away little dirty secrets here, right? If anything, the idea that we were in love was the secret._

“I was an annoying little shit.” Justin repeats. “Brian brought me home one night, stoned. Fucked me. And then I completely stalked him until he gave in. Of course, I thought it was love at first sight and all that.”

“You don’t have to pretend that you didn’t love him.”

“I did love him. But I fell in love with from the everyday things of sharing a life with him over a long time. I thought I loved him so much after that first night.” Justin stops. He realizes he isn’t making sense. He hasn’t had to explain this before. “I guess I didn’t realize until a lot later… looking back. I was with someone else. I realized that I had fallen in love with him over a long period of time. That what I felt with him that first night was more than I had ever known before.” Justin notices David’s brow wrinkle. He seems to be trying to translate some foreign code from Justin. “I don’t know how to explain it really. The first night I felt… like I had… found myself. I felt like Brain had made me free. I didn’t know the difference between that feeling and love until after…” David looks Justin firm in the eyes. Their gaze locks. David’s eyes tell Justin that it is ok to continue. “After I was in love.” 

Eyes locked with Justin’s blues, David sees the heartbreak and loneliness there. He sees Brian’s eyes in them somehow. He doesn’t know this heart break. He knows that Justin, nor Brain, will every be able to express what they feel. _Why do we have to be men? Why can men not just talk? Why is this whole conversation so difficult? This would not be as hard if we were women. Women talk about this stuff. I know they do. They are so much better at this crap. I would ask and he would tell me everything. Pour out his soul. We would share tears and hugs and it would feel… it would feel… shit, I can’t even talk about my feelings in my own head!_

Justin searches David’s face. Looks behind his eyes. _Virgin. Brian likes virgin. I can’t believe he hasn’t fucked the guy. I can’t believe he is hanging around content to be with a virgin. In a relationship with no sex! “Minimal amount of pleasure, maximum amount of frustration!”_ Justin’s lips tighten and turn into a smile despite himself. 

“What?”

Justin sucks in his lips to stop the smile. But, of course, that makes it worse and instantly David is staring into a sunshine smile. 

“It isn’t funny,” David says a little bit defensively, but with a smile nonetheless.

“I’m not laughing at you.” _I don’t think it’s funny. I honestly don’t. It is just an inside joke. Is it wrong to laugh at an inside joke that is between you and yourself?_ Justin’s voice is sincere. The blush begins to finally fade back down David’s face. A tightness in his shoulders and throat begins to loosen.

_Strange. It doesn’t feel funny. It feels… foreign. It feels a million miles away from the Brian I know… from the life I know… from the life Brian introduced me to. Seven years in this world that I have defined as being gay and then there is you. And you aren’t a “See the Light” evangelist. You just aren’t part of my world. Hell, my universe._

David places the jar of paint he was holding back on the tarp and steps toward Justin. He grabs the waist of his pants and roughly undoes the button, jerking down the zipper. Justin’s cock jumps at the aggression. David catches the surprise on Justin’s face. “I’m done with your top,” he says as if it was the most natural transition in the world while pushing Justin’s pants and shorts to the floor. 

_My “top.”_ Justin’s mind roams over another meaning for that statement as David retrieves his paint and walks back to Justin.

Justin hears David’s breath shorten as he takes in the man in front of him. _Virgin._ Justin smiles.

The ice broken, David feels free to bombard Justin with a million questions, just like an eight-year-old boy would. Just like a seven-year-old Gus had the last time he had run into Justin at Lindsay’s studio.

“How many men have you slept with?”   
_I don’t know._

“Did you and Brian practice safe sex?”  
 _Ask him._

“They say that you used to pick up guys together.”  
 _Is that a question?_

“?????”  
 _Yes. No. Yes. No. Are we done yet? How is this helping you?_

Then it seemed like David had run out of questions… or paint… or canvas. Justin wasn’t sure if David expected him to ask something back. Whatever he was expected to do, he didn’t want to know.

“Do you think Brian will ever marry me?”

_So this is what is all leads up to. I am the Brian expert after all._ “I don’t know. You know Brian a lot better than I do now.” Justin studies David’s eyes. He isn’t very good at reading people, but he guesses that David already knows the answer. “Have you asked him?”

“Said he is not the marrying kind.” David says in a very unhurt voice.

_Sounds like Brian. So why is he dragging this poor shit around?_ “Then I would say, no. He is never going to marry you.” _Just like he drug me around. Because he is a selfish, uncaring bastard. Collecting men. Ones that throw themselves at him and worship him. He feeds off them. It gives him power._

“He would marry you.”

“Did he say that?” _I am not searching, just surprised by that comment._

“I know.” 

_How?_

“He wasn’t ready before. He used me as a test. To see if he could do it. Completely change. He can’t. He will never completely change. He can’t be what I want. Who I want.” David looks down. Justin sees the heartbreak. The loneliness. Had it been there the whole time? “But he can be who you want. He can be that for you.”

The honesty of his words make him understand that David is serious and loves Brian enough not to force him into his world, but Brian does not love David enough to not force David into his. It is a heartbreak that Justin can feel in his own chest. They can’t be together and David knows it. What David wants is perfect. What Justin sees in David is perfect. 

The bottom of Justin’s eyes collect water from feelings that he hasn’t let free in a long time. A hurt that he has not acknowledge for a while. A hurt that he can feel in David. He reaches for David’s chin. He can’t tell him he is sorry. He can’t tell him he knows how he feels. He can’t say anything. So he takes his chin in his hand. He let’s David see his eyes. He gives him a look at the things he will never say. 

Their feet shuffle closer in a strange dance. Dragging and wrinkling the tarp. Making no noise. David’s eyes spill over and three fat tears roll down his face with a heavy blink. Justin catches one with the crook of his finger and pushes it back up his cheek. Nose to nose. So close. Motionless air between them. Both holding their breath.

It is David who gives into the silence and closes the distance. David who brushes his lips against Justin softly. Softly comforting both of them. Warmth that does not cure the loneliness, but makes them feel connected. The same. Timid at first. Just meeting lips. A small brush. 

Eyes dart up and down between them. Mouths turn up into the most unnoticeable smiles. Justin pushes his tongue out just enough to moisten his own bottom lip and makes the slightest contact with David’s. 

David sucks on Justin’s lip gently and licks the edge of his lip. Green hands still on his chin. A green streak of paint on a cheek from a mix of paint and tears. Both necks craning forward a little, wary of the drying paint covering Justin’s skin. 

As the kiss deepens, the artist divides the back of Justin’s hair with his fingers and pulls the green man to him. At the moment that his naked form falls flush against David, a small moan, a hum really, escapes Justin.

The spell is broken. David’s eyes shoot open. He breaks this kiss. 

By the time Justin’s eyes adjust and he can take in what has happened, the back door of The Hot Green Sun is being pushed open. He can’t react fast enough to say something. What would he say anyway? David is gone.

Justin is alone in the shop again. It looks different now. Not that he is looking. Not that he can see. The tears that he was holding back, now overtake his eyes and stream down his face. He let’s them fall. It feels good to let them fall for once. Streaking the paint, running down his face and over his chest. 

Justin walks into the small powder room and looks at himself in the mirror. He turns on the water to let it warm. It is always better to cry to yourself in a mirror. It is somehow comforting to see how miserable you look. If your face isn’t pathetic enough, you cry harder. Two hands on the sink, Justin’s shoulders slump forward over the mirror and he closes his eyes to collect himself. He looked miserable enough the first time. No need for more tears. 

He doesn’t notice as Brian opens the back door and steps behind him.


	6. Hot Green Sun

Something is going on with David today. He has been gone for several hours. They hadn’t made plans for today, but Brian assumed that they would spend it together. They always spend Saturdays together. Most of the time they spend it doing nothing. Something had changed over the last week between them. Brian wasn’t sure what was going on, but he vowed not to sink back into _fuck it_ mode and just forget it. They were going to talk. They met for breakfast at the diner as usual. While they ate, David wasn’t distant, just focused on something else. David had left for the store as soon as they had finished. Brian had not felt invited. He hung out with Mikey and at the diner almost all day. When was the last time he had done that? He called a few times during the day. David had been busy working. Brain loved when David was focused on a project, but this didn’t feel like that. He had been working on this odd glass frame for a while now and indicated that he had sorted through that piece. If David wouldn’t talk to him on the phone, he was going to corner him in the store and get to the bottom of this latest little drama. 

Most of his newfound relationship skills were stolen from sappy movies, and most of them had failed miserably. He had finally grown to a point with David that they could just fight it out. Each saying what needs to be said and each able to forgive what comes out wrong or angry or hard. Brian hates open communication, he hates more to admit that most of the time _talking_ works. Steeling himself to whatever awaits him when he confronts David, Brian uses the two-block walk from the diner to the store to mill over what he possibly could have done this time to piss off the fiery artist. 

In the alley, Brian is surprised to find the backdoor closed. He takes out his key and struggles with the lock. He sorts out the trick of not pushing the key all the way in while pulling the handle up. He reminds himself why he is never here without David. David doesn’t seem to notice the archaic deadbolt. The store is dark when he enters. David doesn’t seem to be around. That fact surprises Brian. David is always where he says he is. Brian can’t think of a reason he would be lying now. In all that they have been through, Brian not trusting David has never been the issue. He notices the paint jars and wet brushes on the tarp. _Cleaning up._ He hears a sniff in the bathroom. _Crying?_

Brian grabs a couple of jars of paint and walks toward the bathroom. He has gotten used to the mess and disorganization that goes along with David. He accepts it, mostly. But he needs props for this, something to look at, and something to do with his hands. Another change that he has made, a concession from the old rules. He used to fumble through all confrontations with a drink in his hands…. Now he can settle for being intensely interested in stirring the paint out of a brush. No eye contact can be made during serious relationship stuff, that hasn’t changed.

He makes the turn and leans into the bathroom door, the silent and smooth move of the predator he once was. His eyes look over the shoulder of the naked man in front of him and into the mirror. Head and eyes hanging low. Blue, green and grey paints muted and running down his skin. Brian did not need to see his face to recognize Justin. His eyes widened at the sight of him. How long had it been? Even covered in paint, his naked form was burned into Brian’s memory. Every line and ridge. Every inch. His heart felt whole for a moment as he allowed himself to take in Justin’s body. But the warmth only lasted a moment before his eyes stopped at the white trails that fingers had left on Justin’s skin as they drug through the paint on his shoulders. The blood drained from Brian’s heart as his mind ran through the series of events that must have occurred just before his entry. _What the fuck?_

Justin’s head popped up for a moment and Brian saw the red, blue eyes. White trails of fresh tears cutting through his painted face. Smeared paint around his mouth. His eyes. Still full of tears. No doubt his vision is too blurred to see his own face, much less notice Brian behind him. 

_Justin._

Brian has never seen anything more beautiful, anything more broken, anything more devastated… devastating. He notices the back of Justin’s hair, grey and green, pulled up and out. A just-fucked hair style that Brian knows well. 

_David._

Brian closes his eyes and takes in a slow breath. He hears the shake in Justin’s breath. A little wheeze. 

_What have you done?_


	7. Hot Green Sun

Brian stretches his hand out to touch Justin’s shoulder. He pauses, finger wrinkled slightly into crooked fingers. He can feel the warmth of Justin’s back. If he extended his finger he could dip the tip into the damp paint, but he pauses short of that. Afraid to be caught staring. Afraid to startle the man. Afraid to ask. Afraid to know the truth. To hear his fears. So he drops his hand and slides off the door frame. His head resting safely against the outer wall now. “David?” Brian calls into the bathroom.

“Fuck,” he hears Justin mutter and the water turn off. 

Justin pokes his head out of the bathroom door and is greeted by an unpleasant looking Brian. “Hey,” Justin manages. He has seen Brian four times in the last year and he can count on one hand the number of syllables he has offered him. _Fuck._

“Just came by to pick up David. Have you seen him?” 

Justin clutches the hand towel to his chest and looks down at his painted body. _Have I seen him?_ Justin is conscience of the pause after Brian’s question. He looks up to see a bemused look on his ex’s face. “Um, yeah. I mean—we were just working on a piece together. He was just. He was going to photograph me in front of his mural, but -- ummm... I’m sure he will be back soon.” 

Brian lifts his eyebrows. _Try again, Sunshine._ “I’ll wait.”

“Okay. Well. If you see him. I mean—when he comes back. I need to go. I can’t wait any longer.” _Get me the fuck out of here!_

“You’ll wait too.” Brian throws back. Justin knows by the look that it is a command, not a question or request, and that he will obey it. Brian crosses his arms over his chest and his ankles as he leans back on to the wall. He closes his eyes. His mind going in a million directions. Willing his body to show perfect indifference. He will wait. Wait until he figures out exactly what is going on here.

Justin fidgets. He doesn’t have a wall to anchor him, nor clothes to shield him, nor a cool practiced glare to hide him. He stands there while Brian takes what has happened between the men that day… one hard look and he knows everything… the whole story. Justin knows that he knows and is grateful that he will not have to say anything. If Brian is relived, he doesn’t show it. He knows that if David was going to sleep with someone, it would be him. He tries not to be angry with the artist for hiding his plans for Justin. 

And Justin. Why would he agree to this? That is the part that has Brian with his back attached to the wall. What would have possessed him to be painted, to be naked, in front of his ex’s boyfriend? It was obviously not a cockfight. Maybe they were both going out of their way to prove how non-jealous they really were. Brian likes the idea that they were un-fighting over him. But now David is gone and Justin is crying and he can’t for the life of him figure out who won. He looks again at the wounded green figure before him. Maybe he had.

“Come on.” Brian gently takes Justin’s elbow and pulls him out into the alley.

Justin doesn’t have time to think. If he could form a complete thought he would worry about being thrown out of the store, on to the street, naked, without his keys. If he had time to think he might wonder why Brian grabbed a camera on his way out the door. 

Justin is spun around, disoriented, his swollen eyes not adjusting to the brightness. If he had time to think he might be afraid right now that he was about to be beaten up by a jealous boyfriend.

But he doesn’t have time. In Brian’s instant decision and total conviction, Justin had not been able to anticipate the plan. He stands crumpled, head down, shoulders sagging, hands and elbows struggling to cover as much of his exposed skin as possible. He cannot even open his mouth to ask a single question or throw out a single protest before he hears the shutter of the camera click. Shu-Shu-Click. Shu-Shu-Click. By the time he looks up Brian has taken three, maybe four pictures of him in front of the green and grey glass wall. Justin feels exposed and vulnerable and shocked. 

From Brian’s side of the camera to say that Justin looks bewildered and disoriented would be an understatement. By the time his eyes flicker with recognition, Brian feels like he has found the beauty behind everything David has talked about in this painting. He looks at Justin blending into the background behind him. He sees the fierce blue eyes streaked with red veins. He hears the confusion, the discomfort, the unfairness, the embarrassment. He feels the hurt. The anger. The loneliness. And then he gets it. Brian is looking into the eyes of the most perfect thing he has ever seen… it is the hot green sun. And all he can do is burn for him.


	8. Hot Green Sun

Chin up, Justin marches over to where Brian is standing, the camera resting in his hands and a look on his face like a deer caught in traffic. Two strides and Justin closes the distance. He grabs the camera and jerks it back to his body with more force than necessary. Brian’s hands remain extended at his chest, the dazed expression unchanged on his face.

“What the fuck do you think you are doing?” Justin spits out, breaking Brian out of the trance.

Brian looks at Justin, eye-to-eye. They stand only a foot apart: an uncomfortable distance for strangers, yet, an intimate distance that they are both accustomed to. Brian tips his head forward just an inch to look deeper into Justin’s eyes. Justin shifts back a foot in response. “You...” Brian finally says in a voice that Justin doesn’t recognize. He leaves it hanging in the air.

_I what?_

Brian reaches up and takes Justin by the back of the neck dragging him back toward him. As Justin takes a stumbling step forward, his lips meet Brian’s in an awkward kiss. As Justin struggles to find his balance and straighten himself, Brian sucks on his lip and strokes his lip with his tongue while it is pulled into his mouth. Brian’s eyes close tightly cupping Justin’s jaw with one hand and steadying him with the other at the back of his head, Justin’s wide and questioning with two arms hanging stiffly out to each side.

Justin relaxes his arms and caresses the man’s forearms as the familiar tongue crosses through his teeth and mingles with his own. His eyes close as he takes in the flavor. His jaw loosens and he begins to fall into the kiss. It is so easy. They’ve done it a million times before.

Resuming a familiar dance that neither of them leads, they turn and shuffle their way back into the store, fumbling with the door but never parting. Brian is on his knees guiding Justin onto his back before either of them is aware of the progression. Their kiss breaks as Justin rolls through his back onto the tarped floor.

Justin looks up into Brian’s eyes. Brian doesn’t break the gaze as he unfastens his belt and jeans that are now smeared with paint. Justin used to call the look “right-now eyes,” when both parties need release right now. Justin’s chest heaves with the hard breaths of desire and urgency. Brian slides a condom on and throws himself onto one hand, his body now hovering over Justin. 

With the free hand he traces the line on the underside of Justin’s balls with his index finger. He uses his hand to encourage Justin to open his legs. He continues the path down Justin’s body until his fingers find their way to his nest of tightly wrinkled skin. 

He pushes two in until the heel of his hand slaps against a green painted sack. He is greeted with a gasp as Justin’s back arches against the tarp and his mouth slacks open with pleasure. A little wiggle and then he thrusts his palm… once, twice, three times. He pulls out and replaces fingers with cock. A hard push in. So tight.

He sees Justin’s jaw tighten, a slight pant. Brian grunts into the tightness, the pressure. So good. Just right. Both needing it this way. No words. No tender looks, or soft pets. Just the need. Most of all… no time to think it through, to back down, or back out. 

The rhythm is hard and fast. Justin’s back bearing the weight on the hard ground. The pressure and strain on his shoulders and the top of his hips is numbed by the surge of electricity that is tightening every muscle in his legs and back and neck and the wonderful burn in his ass. He grits his teeth as the tarp bites into his skin. His fingers clawing into Brian’s moving back and leaving marks. 

Brian grunts with each push in. His knees and toes giving him leverage as he slams into Justin again and again. Justin’s thighs tighten around his waist. His calves draw him further inside, connecting them deeper. Brian grabs his thighs to add pressure to the out stroke. Both men glisten with sweat. The paint begins to moisten around Justin’s thighs and Brian slides easily through the paint in a swirling mix of colors. 

Brian’s face contorts, eyes closing, as he nears his climate. Justin looks up at him and blows out a huff of air. He tightens his ass around Brian’s sensitive cock. Brian’s eyes open at the new sensation and he smiles down at Justin. It is a game they have played before: their own Texas Hold’em. Who will hold out? Who will go all in? Whose poker face will win? Who will break eye contact first and give themselves to the flashing hot wave?

As Brian changes the angle to increase the pressure on Justin’s cock sandwiched between them, Justin let’s out a little laugh. A flash of Justin’s smile is all it takes. A low groan and Brian unloads. 

Tongue hanging out he continues to thrust into Justin. His arms tremble and his cock looses its fullness, the power of his orgasm still rushing through his body. He looks down at Justin with his eyes closed. His cock grows more sensitive. He tries to keep the pace but the sensitivity turns to a tickle. He does not slide out. 

He dips down. His body flush with Justin’s. He pulls his neck down and kisses Justin beside his mouth. The only warning before he takes the man with a toe-curling kiss, sucking his tongue into his mouth and exploring the boundaries of his mouth with his tongue. Resting on his elbow, he takes Justin’s cock in his hand. His thrusting is not as rough as his hand takes pace. Justin’s face crunches and Brian feels the warm seed spill out onto his knuckles and stomach.

He stills for a moment. He watches as Justin’s breathing quiets a little bit. Justin’s fingers release Brian’s back and fall limp to the sides. Brian feels the scratches for the first time. Justin’s legs fall open with a thud to the ground. Brian is motionless. He doesn’t make a move to pull out. He just rests inside the painted man. Justin’s eyes remain closed.

Neither man moves.

There is nothing to say.

_Fuck._

_Fuck._

Justin is the first to speak. “I need to go.”

Brian holds the base of the condom and rolls off to the right. By the time he rolls onto his back, Justin has made it to his feet and is busy collecting his clothes.

_Stop?_ Brian thinks from his prone position, not opening his eyes or making a movement. _Stay._ He wants to say, but the words do not find voice. 

He let’s his head drop back onto the tarp, a thousand things racing through his mind. He hears the door rattle. He raises his head to an open door and an empty store. _Please, stay._


	9. Hot Green Sun

By 4:00 Brian had pealed himself off the tarp and surveyed the damage. 

By 4:15 he was on his way back to the loft to take a scalding shower and change clothes, stopping only to drop a particular tarp into a dumpster one block away from the store and to drop a particular roll of film into an envelope bound for Kinnetic’s printer. 

By 5:00 Brian had added his own clothes to the dumpster and was back at the store, arms straining with supplies. He would wait there. They would talk. He entered through the back door and dropped a newly purchased tarp into the corner.

Making his way to the bathroom he picked up five odd jars that David was using as paint containers. He noted the pealing label of a mayonnaise jar—an odd artifact for a vagan artist. He emptied each jar into the running water of the sink before dropping them into a garbage bag.

He grabbed assorted thinners and cleaners and washed each brush carefully. Brian mused about how much David loved his brushes. David had described every little detail of the perfect brush over lunch one day. The store owner’s current favorites were made by a hippy hermit in the Adirondacks that he had met one summer while doing landscapes of the riverbed that cut through the back part of the hermit's property. He received a shipment of handcrafted brushes from the man monthly, whether he needed them or not. David displayed them proudly on the back case of his store. They were perhaps the only organized display in the entire shop. Brian loved catching David running his fingers over the bristles and using the little fans to tickle his lips. He once caught Justin doing the same with a new set of brushes in the weeks before the bashing. 

David’s little store was a collection of stories and adventures. The smooth black stone used to craft the particular brand of calligraphy pens that he liked to carry--impractical pens that cost too much—had a story of their own. David found art in the balance and weight. Brian found himself loving the things that David loved and so he owned five of the pens and used them for everything, sometimes just to occupy his idle hands.

By 5:30 Brian had cleaned up all evidence of the day’s events. Still no David. He tried his cell. He tried his apartment. 

By 6:00 Brian had rolled through the store collecting all of the brushes and the pens and the coloring pencils and the grease sticks. The charcoals and the markers. The pastels and the crayons. Still no David. He tried his cell. He tried his apartment. He tried the diner. He organized a beautiful display beside the brushes.

By 7:00 he had moved on to paper. There were stacks everywhere. He gathered them all into a huge pile near the front counter. Then he began to sort. By size. Then by texture. Then by color. He cleared a display case and placed the papers all on two shelves, complete with dividers. He tried his cell. He tried his apartment. He tried his mother’s. Still no David.

By 8:00 he had moved all of the paints into four sections: water colors, oils, acrylics, and other. He sorted them by brand and then by color. Perfect color wheels. Kits on the shelf at the bottom. Big tubes of whites beside them. On a nearby shelf he lined small glass bottles of thinners, linseed oil, cleaners, and sealers. He tried his cell. When voicemail picked up again, he hung up, turned his phone off, and headed for the baths.

At 3:00am he crawled into his bed and collapsed for a night of sleepless thinking. A couple of blow jobs, several shots of beam, and a bump had not quieted the voice in his head and had not erased the image of Justin naked and wanting stretched out on his back in front of him.

6:00am came with a plan. He made a few phone calls before leaving the loft. He was met at the store by a locksmith, a framer, an electrician, and his faithful cleaning lady. 

Brian rummaged through tubes of canvas and paper: drawings, paintings, and sketches that David had done over the years. Some of them finished, others not completely started before being rolled up and abandoned for years. It was the creative process… Brian didn’t understand it, but knew better than to question it. He pulled out four pieces that represented different phases for him, selecting each at first glance, not taking the time to over analyze or judge--just four pieces: a collage from his first show, an oil landscape from his days in the mountains, an impressionistic picture of his scruffy little mutt done while he was still a puppy that used to hang in his apartment, and a charcoal self-portrait that Brian couldn’t place. He handed them off to a framer that David worked with often. The framer displayed his cards at the front counter of the store. He owed him. It wasn’t difficult to convince him to come in on Sunday for the work. The frames would be delivered by 7:00. 

By 10:00 the store was taking shape. The floor was shiny and freshly buffed. The windows were scrapped and cleaned. The bathroom was immaculate. His housekeeper accepted the contract fee, in cash, without a smile and left a little after 2:00. 

The display cases had been rearranged so that clearly one half of the store became a large open space. Brian was busy on his laptop and his portable printer was jetting out labels and signs.

The doors were oiled, hinges tightened, and the godforsaken deadbolt was reworked. The locksmith was from the phonebook. He came without recommendation on a promise of $200 plus double-time pay. He finished the doors in two hours, but Brian suspected that he could have finished in one.

Display cases were lit. A large panel of amber lighting was added to the back wall. Tasteful up lights and recessed over lights were spaced throughout. A large control panel with assorted dimmers was mounted beside the back door. Getting the electrician had been a little trickier. He called Emmett on that one, who recommended a friend, who knew a guy, and so on. A blow job in the storeroom, $5,000, plus supplies: the electrician was gone by 8:00. The shop was almost unrecognizable with the new lighting. 

As night fell to signal the end of Sunday, Brian was still busy in the store. A set of beautiful wooden stools was delivered along with some assorted pedestals and columns and a white chaise lounge. Brian ran his hand over the fabric. It was filled with memories… too many memories. It was time for a change of setting. He would re-do that corner of the loft, it would be his latest step. He had not heard from David. He could only imagine what the man was doing. Part of him wondered what was going through his mind, why he hadn’t called, but mostly he was glad that he had been able to pull off his plan without being found out. This was the height of Kinney romance--the big productions that he was famous for. He was trying. David would love it.

At 10:00 Brian stood by the back door and took in all that he had accomplished. The rag-tag shop now looked polished and respectable and he had managed to give the man a wonderful new space for his art—the next best thing to a real studio. The easel that David had bought during his semester in Italy his junior year of college was placed on the clean tarp, facing the area with scattered props. Eight new crystal glasses lined the windowsill, waiting to be used to mix paint (far more pleasing than the old used jars). 

Brian looked over the lighting and adjusted the lights over the newly hung paintings. He looked into the eyes of the portrait hanging above the counter. _You’ll call me tomorrow._ Brian wished he could be there in the morning to see the artist's face when he walked through the door.

By Monday morning, the only object that had gone untouched was a large pain of glass that was leaning against the brick wall outside. When David pushed open the door, the lights were already on. As he looked over the store, his keys slipped out of his hands and fell to the floor with a clank.


	10. Hot Green Sun

David nodded to the doorman on his way to the stairwell. He didn’t feel like waiting for the elevator. He felt uncomfortable being scrutinized by all the invisible eyes in the empty lobby, as if by one look any stranger could tell--would see the guilt in his heart, the betrayal on his face. His loving parents had trained him well to be a man. There is only one thing worse than a man who cries: a man who is seen crying.

By 4:00 he has made his way into his apartment after a long walk home being chased by guilt and a stolen kiss and lust and longing and comfort and sacrifice and loneliness. And by 4:00 he has run a hot bath in his old tub and has scrubbed the green smudges of sin off his body. It is only after he allows himself the comfort of a fluffy tan towel that he gives himself permission to cry, to morn the loss of his love and renew his decision to walk away.

By 4:30 he has fallen asleep, curled up on his bathroom rug, cried out in front of the mirror. It is always best to cry in the bathroom, to see how pitiful you are.

The phone wakes him at 5:30. First his cell, then his apartment. He knows it is Brian. He doesn’t answer. He gets up and pads over to the overstuffed chair by the door that is covered by a hairy blanket and acts as a dropping station for mail and keys and anything else he happens to bring home. He turns off the ringer of his cell phone that was deposited there. The old chair came from his grandfather’s study. The smell of old man was replaced by his aging dog’s smell many years ago when he first brought the mutt home from a shelter and dropped him on the chair along with his keys. The dog claimed the chair from then on and David had not thought to fuss. The rest of his apartment was just as comfortable and worn. David liked to collect perfect things. Each piece in his little home was a treasure in some way, a memory. No single object related to any other. As a whole, however, they pieced together the story of David’s life: his childhood in the city, his great explorations to find himself, the menagerie of places and characters he met along the way that changed him into the man he is. In the corner there was a sleek Italian drawing table. Someday he would refer to it as his “Brian Period” and smile.

David roamed around the apartment, folded laundry, picked through the fridge. At 6:00 the phone rang again. The answering machine picked up and there was a message this time. “Call me when you get in.” No need to leave a name. David held his breath until he heard the “click.”

At 6:15 the phone rang again. This time it was his mother. “Just checking on you.” “Brian called.” “What’s going on?” “I’ll call you later in the week.” He smiled thinking about any conversation that Brian could have had with his mother. Always so polite. A true alter boy. “Ma’am” and “Mrs.” Brian could not be recognized if he was within forty feet of his mother. 

David filled the day and evening pacing through the apartment. He didn’t know how the conversation would go. He would avoid it for a few days. He would act distant and aloof with all the maturity of a seventeen-year-old schoolgirl. Brian would finally ask after about a week and David would tell him that it was over--that he wanted more than Brian could give him. It would be the truth. Brian wouldn’t budge, but he would be hurt. They would both survive. It was a solid plan. He wishes he could call Brian and tell him about it, Brian would be impressed. He begins to feel the hurt as he realizes that they will no longer be friends. The loneliness creeps back in and he feels sorry for himself for a little while.

By 8:00, he knows that he will not be able to make it through the next week. Better to come clean now and meet it in the eye, no games, he was better than games. He takes a breath and picks up the phone. _Call him._

At 9:00 he finally dials the number. Brian has his cell off. Nice to know he isn’t missed.

He falls asleep on the couch watching bad movies on television and wakes the next morning with bad breath and a crick in his neck. He doesn’t bother to pick up the spilled bag of microwave popcorn or shower. He takes the phone off the hook, drinks two gulps of milk, and heads for the bedroom for his Sunday nap.

By noon he has had too much lying around and gets out of bed with a headache. He eats wilted cabbage and takes a thermos of 15-bean soup and his sketchpad with him to the park. He sits out all day under a huge oak tree. September has set in and the nights are cold. The tree is beginning to loose its color. David does not find inspiration in the change, just cold in the wind. He sits on the bench and lets the cold bite and tear at his face and hair. He lets it sting him through his oversized cable-knit jumper. He comes home hungry--face chapped red from the wind with lips cracked and a blessedly clean sketchpad. 

Thoughts are exhausting sometimes. Heartbreak is tiresome. Sleep comes easy that night. 

He wakes the second day with the blaring of his radio, just off tune from his favorite station. Another Monday. He faces the day, dreads going into the shop. His stride to the bathroom falteres a little bit when he realized with dread that he will have to clean up Saturday’s wreckage. His mind shoots back to Justin. Standing there. Looking kissed. The last second flash before he ran away. He wonders how long the blond had stuck around, wonders if he’d snooped through the store, wonders if he’d left a note, wonders if he’d locked the door. He wonders how long it would be before he ran to Brian… how long it would be before Brian ran to him. A thousand questions accompany his walk back to the store. He doesn’t notice the glorious day in the city, the fabulous displays that had popped up in shop windows over the weekend. He runs his hand over the glass wall as he walks past it in the alley to his welcoming steel door. 

When he opens the door he takes in the brightly lit store in front of him, his eyes bounce from corner to corner searching for something he recognizes as he lets his keys slip from his hand and fall to the floor with a clank.


	11. Hot Green Sun

_What were you thinking?_

_What were you thinking?_

"What was I thinking?"

Justin walks into his apartment and throws his keys onto the counter. _You are such a whore._ He tells himself. _How did you manage to kiss one and sleep with the other? Is that what you wanted to happen when you agreed to that? Do you want Brian back in your life?_

He strips his clothes off on his way to the small bathroom. By the time he reaches the shower, he is completely undressed with a ball of paint-covered clothes wadded in his arms. He steps over the edge of the tub and turns on the hot water. He allows the cold spray to punish him as it heats up. He works the paint out of his jeans and shirt. He lays the steaming clothes over the shower bar and curses as the blistering liquid hits his sensitive stomach. He takes the natural sponge off the showerhead as he turns a nozzle to cool the spray. For ten minutes, well after the water turns cold, Justin scrubs himself, leaving not an inch of skin untouched by the course action. When he steps out of the shower and faces his reflection in the mirror, he still feels dirty.

He throws himself wet onto his comforter. He does not allow his mind to wander over the events of the day. He refuses to delight in what David had said or to relive every touch that had passed between Brian and him. He reins in his thoughts to the feeling of cold droplets running down his body, the covers sticking to his wet skin, and the cold air rushing in from the open bedroom door. His skin tightens from the cold and he shivers in silence until he gives himself over to sleep.

On Sunday he wakes up and takes himself to the park with an empty sketchbook. He sits under a bridge and draws all of the ugliness he can find in this beautiful place. A tree scarred by a teenage boy in love. An empty cup: mildewed and breaking down from the weather. Grass crushed by too many feet cutting off a corner of the sidewalk: walkers and joggers cheating their own pastime. The affect of the human condition on the natural--the beautiful. On the last page he draws his own jeans, bagging and wrinkled at the knees… his scuffed Doc Martins with frayed laces and worn tread…the edge of his sketchbook digging into his thigh. As he runs the side of his pencil over the pieces, the shadows grow darker, the crack in the concrete beneath him becomes deeper as if the earth might open up and swallow him… as if something might be waiting for him in the depths of hell. Justin smiles at himself and closes his sketchbook and huffs out a laugh. His art is nothing if not over-dramatic and self-condemning. 

At 3:00 he stands and brushes himself off. His pants are damp from the concrete and his ears and nose are red from the cold. He walks in circles around the park and city. Anyone paying attention to his path would assume he was a drifter: not worried about where he is going or how long it takes him to get there. Head down, he continues to walk around, deep in thought. At 4:25 he looks up at the door of the restaurant where he works… just in time for his 4:30 shift.

For Justin, life goes on. Nothing has changed. He will erase this latest mistake… latest fuck--that’s all it was, he tells himself--with another fuck, another time. He resigns himself to go to the baths tonight… to a place he hates and avoids… so that he can cover one mistake with another one. The baths are a sure bet. He can walk into a tiny room, face the wall, and get fucked without ever getting a name or a look at the tricks eyes. That’s what he needs tonight he tells himself--a fuck with no history… no future. No future… _just like Brian and me._


	12. Hot Green Sun

It only took 30 seconds for David’s eyes to stop jumping across the shiny store and land on the drawing that he had taken home from Lindsay’s gallery. Thirty seconds for him to gather a million thoughts that made his stomach turn and his jaw tighten. _Brian!_

First, the store. It looked beautiful and perfect. Every detail covered. Perfect little logos and descriptive sections tagging every aisle. Perfect little displays and price tags and lighting. Perfect exotic elevator music floating in the background. Perfect pine scent from floor cleaner and the ammonia from shiny glass filled the air. David could picture a mother coming in to pick out her child’s art supplies for a school project. She would no doubt find everything she was looking for. She would gaff at the prices, she would admire the leather furniture and pedestals, and she would leave with a smile and warm fuzzy feeling. His store—his baby—had been reduced to something he had seen in every mall he had ever been in over night. It had all the inspiration of a businessman: all the creativity of a consultant. He recognized the gesture for what it was, but his heart sank at what it meant: Brian didn’t know him at all. 

Brian didn’t respect that he liked the store the way it was… that he had planned it to be dark and a little damp…that he wanted his customers to come in and ask for his help to find that one thing, or to spend the time to dig for their little treasures by themselves… that he wanted people to stumble upon his precious pens just in time to look up and see a huge blank page waiting to soak up the ink. Brian thought that he was careless. Brian thought he was messy. Brian didn’t understand the process. Brian didn’t understand the passion. Brian didn’t understand him.

But the framed paintings (hanging on the wall with perfect lighting like a gallery) hurt him more. Brian had carelessly chosen to display his work—his heart—his life—his love… without asking him how or if he wanted it to be shown. David assumed that he had either picked the first four canvases that he came to, or that he picked the four pieces that he liked the best. Either way, Brian lost. He had chosen pieces with such little thought that he had not even looked to see who the artist was! He had chosen a piece that was obviously not his! After all this time did Brian even know what his art looked like? Could he not feel the difference? Could he not see? Or maybe he had, and this was the sign. If he had chosen his favorite artist, his choice was obvious… it was hanging right there on the wall… perfectly illuminated. A portrait, by J. Taylor. 

Or maybe… had Justin talked to Brian? Surely not. He couldn’t quite grasp all that might be or could have. He stumbled forward into the store. Lost in thought he walks the few steps to the counter and runs his hand over the name scratched into the corner of the portrait. Taylor.

A push on the still-locked front door brings David out of his head and back into reality. A wiry young man dressed in black raises his chin and smiles at him. A regular. An art student with a studio in the city and a rich daddy and all the inspiration of a life unlived. David steps to the side as the man brushes past the door. He seems to be in awe of the new look that store has taken on and David can tell that this guy likes it, of course he does. 

The student strolls each aisle touching tubes and brushes and paper, shifting them slightly in their cases. He strokes the leather chaise. His eyes wonder over the walls and racks and back to David with a smirk and glare. David is not in the mood to be cruised and he is about to tell him to fuck off when the phone rings behind the counter. 

He holds the receiver to his ear and without a hello or identification, “What were you planning to do for lunch?” comes from the other end of the receiver. 

All he can hear in the next moment is a silent wish from Brian for him to gush about how much he loves what he did to the store. He only needs to say thank you for everything to go back to normal and for Brian to be happy. But he can’t force the words. “How about the diner at 1:00?” And if he listens closely, he might be able to hear a heart breaking across town.


	13. Hot Green Sun

He would have passed the next four hours perched on the stool, staring at his wavy reflection in the freshly waxed counter. He would have lost his morning running through the possible conversations and arguments that await him at the diner. He could have drifted back into his own little world and taken his time building protective layers and padding around all of his vulnerable parts. He could have walked in with hazed eyes and a high chin, faced Brian, and delivered a prepared speech that was impersonal and cool and somehow less painful. Would have… could have… but a customer was looking through the aisles making small talk, and a middle-aged woman roamed through with a million questions, and at least five people wandered down while waiting for their $12 haircuts. The “lunch crowd” doesn’t rush little bohemian stores like Hot Green, but David had become accustom to eating a late lunch—something he had worked out with the landlord upstairs: the rent was cheap, she covered utilities, and he covered her until noon.

The little group that filled his store at noon was only interested in passing the time until Jessica came back from lunch with her third piece of gum snapping and a fresh set of gossip from one of the latest sandwich shops located just off Liberty.

David doesn’t look up when the little bell jingles at the front door. The new noise at the door irritated him at first. It was one more detail that he didn’t design in a store that used to be his. As the day had worn on, he had gotten used to the little chime. 

“What happened to this place? Are you selling?”

David’s lips instantly part into a smile and he looks up to see Justin with his mouth gaping open circling and surveying the shop. “Not exactly.”

His spinning stops and he focuses on the lounge chair in the corner. “Brian _fix_ it for you?”

David notices the nostalgia and sadness in his eyes… Justin begins to float away in to some place long ago as he gazes with low shoulders at the chaise. “Recognize that, do you?”

“Yeah, well, you know how Brian is with Italians.” The words escape Justin before he has time to draw them back in. Italian. David has to be Italian. Look at him. He hadn’t meant it as a cut, but it seems to have landed hard.

“That must explain his soft spot for Debbie.” David lets him off the hook with a smile.

“I guess. I think we should talk about the other day. I think we have to.” Justin spits out in one breath, still focused on the couch and other artifacts scattered in the corner of the shop.

“Are you sure.” It is not a question. David crosses the floor, flips the sign hanging on his door, and turns the deadbolt. He stops at the door with his face still on the deadbolt, his hand still on the door wondering how he had gotten here, wishing he wasn’t. “I’m meeting him in an hour at the diner. Maybe you should go, tell him I sent you. I think he would be relieved.”

“I think you are wrong.” Justin is still trying to make out what had happened in the last two days. Does David know they fucked? Does Brian know that David is planning to leave? Have they talked about him? Has David seen the pictures? Justin watches as David cross back to the counter. His eyes land on the art above his head for the first time. _Oh. My--_ “Where the fuck did that come from?”

David didn’t have to look. “Lindsay.”

“Lindsay?”

“I saw it in the gallery, asked about it, and she gave it to me.”

Justin stood there. Anything that he had planned to say before had been lost. His sketch… on the shop’s wall. _Shit._

“I’m not sure that Brian realized it was yours.”

“How do you have it?”

“I told you, Lindsay.” David turns and looks up into his own eyes. “Brian loves you. He loves what you do. I think that is why we first got together. Something about the way I draw reminded him of you, but it was only the parts that were you that the liked." he runs his fingers over the frame's edge. "He never took down the pieces you gave him, you know. Brian framed that… hung it there. I don’t even think he noticed that it wasn’t one of mine. ”

“I’m sorry.” He meant it. 

_Sorry’s bullshit._ They both thought.

“I know,” Justin said reading his mind, “but I really am.” He was sorry for so much. For kissing him, fucking on the floor of his store, for knowing Brian well enough to see his miscalculated romantic jester, for tainting their relationship, for leaving Brian devastated… for so much. The words weren’t enough to make David care. He didn’t need to forgive Justin as much as Justin didn’t ask for his forgiveness. 

“I think you are wrong though.” Justin tore his eyes away from the pencil sketch to the real man. “I think that Brian loves you for you. He is different with you that he was with me. Forget how you met--why you met. He respects you. He meets you on your turf. He makes an effort to be part of your world.” Justin jesters out to the side to indicate the surroundings. “He would have never done something like this for me. I was always a part of his life, but he was never a part of mine. I was his toy. You are his equal.”

_That is very kind of you. But you are wrong. You’ll see._ “Yes, but when we met he didn’t want to play with me. All the fun things… the toys… he didn’t get those from me. I think I was safer that way. I couldn’t get to him, to all of him, past his walls. It doesn’t matter anymore anyway.”

Justin puts up both hands in surrender. “I just came in to tell you that I think we should all forget about who did what on Saturday and erase the day. I kind of hoped we could laugh it off to awkwardness… kind of knew we wouldn’t.” 

Nothing. David's eyes drew more and more detached. He could almost hear the bricks being layed into the walls around the artist's heart. David looked... removed. Justin knew nothing he could say would get through the layers. 

“It was nice meeting you David.” Justin said with a bow and let himself out of the store.


	14. Hot Green Sun

The door swings open and closes again. With his back to the door, Brian quiets the spoon that he has been fiddling with in his coffee and holds his breath trying to hear the steps coming, waiting to hear something in the way he walks or pauses, hoping to hear his name called with happiness. The footsteps approach the booth quickly and pass him; he sees dyed-green denim and a tight shirt roll by. Not him. It has not been him for the last twenty-five minutes. Two cups of coffee have gotten cold from it not being him. It is 1:05. Brian knows that 1:05--hell 1:25--is still considered on time for David. He curses himself for looking at the five-dollar clock hanging above the counter again. The door opens… the cold air bursts through the diner. Brian looks over his shoulder and sees David standing in the doorway.

He looks unsteady; like the next step may not clear the tiny crack that has been in the floor since the day that Michael had first brought him here… and who knows how long before that. The crack has witnessed the transformation of Liberty Avenue without anyone noticing that it was there. But now, something is terribly interesting about the crack because Brian follows David’s gaze down to that spot on the floor. What ever was going on with the couple had nothing to do with the crack… or the coffee that Brian had been stirring… or the clock.

“There you are, Beautiful.” Brian manages a warm greeting, shifting up in his seat and catching David’s frightened expression with a smile.

_Here I am, indeed. Maybe you can explain how I got here, Mr. Kinney. I think I may need to know. I think I may need to hear it out loud before I go on. I remind you of him in so many ways that you miss and I am unavailable in so many ways that I couldn’t replace. I am the perfect understudy: I know the lines, look the part, but never get on stage or hear the applause._

David slid into the booth opposite Brian without comment. Brian had known from the phone call that all of his effort this weekend had not produced the desired effect. He spent three days wondering how David felt about Justin, wondering if Justin would tell David about…what happened next. He felt trapped between two worlds colliding. He felt an incredible cloud of loneliness—of coldness… one that he used to find strength in… power because it was in his control and his choice. 

“I think I should apologize about the store… I thought you would like it.”

“I know you did.” He stops, looking for something nicer to say. Brian had worked very hard and done so much for him, he felt guilty that he couldn’t accept the gift and love the gift for what it was. The problem was, he didn’t know what it was. “I can’t believe how different it looks. You had to have spent a fortune… and how many people did you have working on it? I can’t believe you kept it a secret. I guess that I was so busy this weekend I…” He let the trail of rambled sentences drift off. There, that was a good cover. 

Brian doesn’t seem to be buying it. “What were you up to this weekend? Too busy to pick up the phone? I missed you.”

_This isn’t working out. Cut the crap. You didn’t come here to be nice._

“How did you… Did the…” David pauses to clear his throat and pick up the nerve that he had left somewhere in the doorway of the diner. “Did you do it because of what happened with Justin?” He waits, expecting to explain what had happened, his story was polished now. He had practiced it enough. He had a clear transition from Saturday to Monday—what he had come to realize, to accept. He would give Brian a warm kiss on the cheek and squeeze his hand. He would tell him to go and be happy and to find Justin.

On the other side of the table, Brian’s eyes widened. _So, you know._ He must have talked to Justin. Brian thinks that David must think that what he did to the store was like some sort of sorry-here-are-your-roses routine that seems to be grained into every piece-of-shit hetero man in the nation. If he needed to apologize for a fuck, he’d do it in person… that’s why he was there, right? “So you talked to Justin, huh?” The words came out meekly. Eyes couldn’t quite meet David’s. 

“Talked?” David’s eyes scrunched, but before he could go on with his prepared speech, Brian interrupted.

“I wanted to be the one… I didn’t want you to find out from… That isn’t why I fixed the shop though.”

_Fixed! That isn’t why you fixed…_ David’s mind was racing. He was having an entire conversation with Brian in his head where he felt like everyone’s feelings were safe and he wouldn’t have to defend his anger. In his head this was all going so differently. _Wait a minute…_ “Find out? What happened with Justin?” 

_Fuck! He doesn’t know._ Brian cringes.

One second... Brian's eyes dripping with an apology.

Two seconds... Pleading eyes. _Dont' make me say it._

Three seconds... Begging now. _Just know it. See it. I was going to say it, but now you know... it will better if I don't have to say the words._

Four seconds... A blush creaps into Brian's face and he can't hold the look any longer, he can't let the man behind his wall for another instant. _Easier._

“Holy shit! You fucked him didn’t you? I told him that you are still in love with him and he runs into your waiting arms!” David spits out not caring who hears. This is his moment to be mad and he will not be embarrassed for acting like a queen. “You fucking… I can’t believe you fucked him.” _I take that back, I can completely believe you fucked him. I can’t believe that I saw Justin a few minutes ago and he didn’t tell me you fucked. Had he spent the weekend at the loft?_

Brian takes it—takes it all. He wants the punishment. Needs the anger. Motionless like a whipping boy.

“Well that’s just great.” A part of him had dared to hope. A small sliver had hoped that Brian would tell him that he was wrong, that he was the only one for Brian and that Justin was nothing to him. _Why?_ His voice shakes, his eyes are full of tears. He won’t let Brian see him like this. A million questions… he doesn’t want to know the answers. Hot red flashes shoot through his face. David stands and walks out of the diner. 

Brian is stiff. Eyes like glass looking at his coffee. Every muscle tight. He had fuck up. He hears David’s steps. Loud. Fast. Confident. Final. The door opens. Icy wind hits Brian’s neck. Door closes. 

The diner is absolutely silent. Forty eyes are on Brian, he meets none of them. 

_I told him…_

Brian is afraid to move.

_I told him you are still in love with him…_

His hand trembles and the spoon falls into his cup with a clink. 

_…you are still in love with him…_


	15. Hot Green Sun

On the Sidewalk

The leaves have changed and fallen: swept out on to the roads by merchants, carried away by the huge street cleaners that prowled at night. Justin walks toward the restaurant noticing the carved pumpkins that have been set out this week and swatting at the big black flies that are happy to take part in this portion of the holiday. He grimaces at the store windows that are already beginning to display the red and green and silver of Christmas to come. Christmas seems to come earlier in this part of town. On Liberty, everything is a festival. Rag-tag families of friends trying to be happy without remembering those in the community who have passed or those in their childhood homes who had abandoned them mark Christmas to fags. Out here everyone embraces it as if it was the one thing that they could all agree on. He passes a little hole selling incense, brass Buda’s, magic crystals, and strange dried things in plastic bags. _Or maybe not._ He thinks smiling. He reminds himself how lucky he is. He will pass out candy from the door of his apartment. He will spend holidays with his mother and sister. He will get a card from Daphne and a phone call. He will attend a party for work and will joke and laugh with a couple of the guys that he can almost call friends. He will take presents to the kids that he works with at the center. Winter is hitting the Pitts and Justin arms himself with the confidence that his life is complete.

It has been three weeks since he last saw Brian and he has hardly given the little blunder a second thought. It was just a fuck up. Habit really. Everything is back to normal now… the way it should be. Waiting for the crossing light to change, he runs through it all again… for the millionth time. _little blunder…. Just a fuck up… habit really… back to normal… the way it should be…I’m not going to think about him…_ “Yeah, that’s it.” He blushes realizing he is starting to talk to himself outside of the apartment now.

In the Loft

Brian is clicking though web sites looking at pop-up ads for diet pill distributors. He knows they are quacks. Hates the fine print. Reads it anyway. Knows that his client will be more than happy to pay his enormous fee after his pitch. He runs the palm of his hand over his face and closes his eyes. After sitting at the desk all day, he straightens his back to fight the soreness. He turns his head and his eyes stop at the chaise in the corner of the loft. It had been returned two weeks ago.

Brian had passed the store several times over the last three weeks. He peered in a few times after dark when the lights were off and he knew that David would be gone. He found that little had been changed. A wooden bench replaced the Italian chair. The portrait over the counter had been traded for a dark landscape. The green sun on the door had been scraped off and replaced by a computer-designed sign that matched the logo that Brian had come up with that weekend. _Brand recognition._ Brian had smiled to himself when he saw it. He smiled now just thinking about the man.

Three weeks and no David. Not a peep. Now Brian knows he will not get one. It had always been different with David. He will not be back. David could be final. With Justin, it was never final. At least he hopes not.


	16. Hot Green Sun

Brian is waiting. He is not going to push, certainly won’t chase. Some things haven’t changed, but it feels like everything else has. Cynthia, Lindsay, Gus, and--how pathetic is this--Ted are the only people who vibrate in his pocket these days. 

A month has past. A month. Brian’s phone has stopped ringing. He misses the little random conversations from David that had speckled his days over the last couple of years. And he misses Michael for the first time. He hadn’t realized how little they talk anymore… until he had no one else to talk to. They had both been so busy with their own lives and had someone else with whom they shared all the details. Somehow his talks with Michael had slid into weekly updates without either of them noticing, or at least without Brian noticing… and he had become Michael… Mikey lived in his past. As he looks at his phone again he longs for that past. 

It wasn’t so long ago that he would not have had to wait, that Justin would have chased. It was easier then. All he had to do was get caught. How he wishes he could have just let the little fucker catch him! He walks slowly now. Taking his time as he strolls from his office at the old baths, past the new baths, toward the diner. He makes the walk four times every day—slowly—not like a man being chased, like a man easily caught.

Brian feels the blood drain from his heart and his arms get cold. It is the moment he has drilled out in his head for the last thirty-three days. He sees Justin walking out of the diner. Turning the corner from the door. Heading his way. Brian’s eyes water from the sight of him. The fortress and walls around his heart crumble away. This is the part he has been practicing—the honesty that he has been collecting the balls to present when he got the chance. His chance. He feels completely exposed, but can’t keep the huge smile from pulling across his face, can’t keep his heart from pounding its empty chambers in his chest, can’t stop his cheeks from breaking out into the biggest blush of his life—feels like the first blush of his life, can’t stop himself from walking a little faster, can’t rip his eyes away from his… Doesn’t care that any stranger on the street would recognize his expression as the one their kid wore on Christmas—the Christmas that Santa brought the bike even.

Justin is fiddling with the strap on his backpack that is caught in his favorite-scarf-of-the-moment that he wore a few weeks too early just because he likes scarves so much. He is walking in a slow awkward line and looking out only far enough to know that he won’t run into anyone. He doesn’t see Brian coming--doesn’t notice the face. He looks up just in time to see Brian take a deep breath and shove his hands in his pockets. 

_Shit._

He looks good. Looks like sex and excitement: like Brian, only a little lighter. Looks like maybe he has gained weight or stopped smoking. Hot, but not just fucked. He is wearing causal work clothes. Designer, dark, tailored--goes without saying--jacket but no tie. He looks like he might have just stepped out of one of his advertisements. 

Justin’s breath catches a little bit. He steels himself. He knows the score. He has endured enough morning-afters with a trick who wants to do the numbers routine. He won’t put himself through the embarrassment of being rejected; he won’t give Brian the pleasure of showing him his place… again. Every part of him wants to run into the man’s arms and plant little kisses across his face… every part except the mustard seed of pride that he has managed to hold onto through everything. The tiny speck is all he has left and he won’t give him that too: won’t let him take it.

Three steps and Brian stops. He shifts his feet a little, following Justin with his body. “Hey,” Justin says with a nod and a small smile. Justin swerves in his path a little. He keeps walking; their paths cross like two strangers on the street, Justin offering a comfortable acknowledgement, nothing more. He walks quickly and Brian stands in a stupor for a solid three seconds. 

_Hey? What the fuck!?_

“Hey,” Brian calls after him. It is not a return to the greeting, it is a request for an audience. “Hey! Where the fuck are you going?” Okay, so maybe he will chase.

Justin hears him. His voice fills him; washes over him like a warm wave. He turns to see Brian running toward him—maybe not running toward him with a soft musical accompaniment wearing a white shirt, hair caught in the wind, barefoot in the sand, like his fantasies sometimes feature him—but there are fast movements, wide strides, and a bounce in his steps. This is Brian running when he is not on the treadmill. No matter how cool he is in the gay world—he can be the King of Liberty and Babylon—but he still runs like a girl. Justin fights a smile at the display. 

“I haven’t seen you in a month and all you have to say is ‘hey’?” Brian looks at him with a scowl. “I don’t think so.” Brian tries to look angry, angry is better than hurt.

“We don’t have to talk about this. I’m a big boy now Brian. I don’t need the speech. I’ve heard your speech a couple of hundred times already.” Justin shrugs and turns again; the light has changed so he cannot cross, he is trapped.

“I don’t want to not talk about this. I mean: I want to talk to you.” A pause. “I’ve been wanting to talk you.” Quieter this time. He doesn’t know how to do this. He has never had to do this… on the side of the street…during lunch. The most important pitch of his fucking life, here, on the street corner, to his back, with cars roaring past and a people crowding together to cross.

“You knew how to find me.” Justin curses himself for letting a little bit of his hurt fill that sentence. “It was a mistake. Let’s call it habit. It has always been easy for us. It doesn’t change anything. He really loves you. I didn’t tell him.” Justin says to the street. He turns and looks over his shoulder to glance back at Brian. “I won’t tell him.” 

The light changes and Justin steps off the curb and crosses the street. Brian doesn’t chase. He stands with his mouth open and watches Justin walk away. He stands until Justin disappears on the other side of a patio a block away. Only then does he turn and walk toward the diner. Slowly… like a man with nothing left to chase.


	17. Hot Green Sun

“I saw him.”

“On the street outside the diner.”

“Yeah, she’s great, I think the vacation was good for her.” Justin pulled the phone away from his ear and looked behind him again. No one was coming. He had not been followed. He sunk into the alley wall. “Did you hear me, Daph? I just ran into Brian!”

Justin made it two full blocks before he picked up the phone to call Daphne. After all they have been through, even the miles that separate them now, she is still his champion. She can still back him, push him, encourage him, calm him, advise him, and call him on his shit. And she can still understand everything that Justin is feeling from just a few short sentences.

“No, I didn’t break.” Justin listens as Daphne fills his soul back up with encouragement. This had been the plan: he would avoid Brian and if they met by chance, he would at least avoid a real conversation. He would play it cool. It had been an accident and he didn’t need his world to be turned upside down again. Not now. He had come so far. Two years and he was just about over it. Daphne had agreed, although she still wished for her friend’s life to not be so firmly planted on the ground.

He slides down the wall as they continue to talk. The cold pavement seeps through his khakis and they move off the subject of Brian and into more current events by the time Justin is ready to get up again and head back to Lindsay’s studio. He has to admit that even if David finding the portrait he had drawn embarrassed him, he still loves spending time with Lindsay and Gus and that his art has come alive in the last two months.

Lindsay’s Studio

No one is at Lindsay’s when he arrives. An hour flew by. He runs his fingers through the thick acrylic paint that he is using. Bold colors fill the canvas in front of him: a swirling blurred street scene; cars racing by, a lone man motionless on the corner under a blaring red palm, a scarf caught in the wind—blocking his face, two contorted shadows on the ground behind him of people dancing, or fighting, or embracing, can’t really tell. 

“Wow. It is amazing.” His head jerks up at Lindsay’s words. She steps forward to look at the canvas over Justin’s shoulder. “Maybe you could add an angle here—or here—to bring the focus toward this area.” She motions and points for a few moments. Justin always respects and listens to any of Lindsay’s comments. She has always been a more talented teacher and critic than an artist herself.

“When did you get in? I didn’t hear you. Where is Gus?”

“I dropped him off at Brian’s.” Lindsay looks at Justin for a second trying to judge a response. “He said that you ran into each other today.”

Justin’s eyes race to her face, to his hands, then to the painting. He fiddles with a glob of paint before answering. “Yeah.”

“He told me about what happened—before.”

“Yeah.” 

Lindsay sighs. She knows he doesn’t want to talk about this. That he isn’t going to talk about this with her. But she presses anyway. Someone has to, right? It is about time and she can’t take it any longer. “You know that he has been completely devastated that he hasn’t heard from you, right?”

Justin looks up at her. Surprised. Of course he doesn’t know.

“I think he thought you’d find him after they broke up.” She doesn’t have to explain who or why or say anything else.

Justin’s mouth opens but no words come out. For a split second she sees something in his eyes: All the questions that we won’t ask her; that she knows he won’t ask him either.

“I think he always thought you’d come back. He waited a long time. I didn’t even know that you were talking again until—“

“We aren’t talking again,” Justin cuts her off.

“I thought… he said you came by the store a couple of times and he had seen your work.” Lindsay paused. Still nothing coming from Justin, he isn’t going to break on this. But he seems to be listening. “I should have picked up on it though. He was acting pretty… weird: nervous. And you were drawing again.”

Justin’s head shot back up, “I—“ But he doesn’t finish.

“You are obviously not going to tell me what is going on. But just for the record, you’re the only one who knows. It's all up to you. David’s gone; he sold the store. Brian’s a wreck, but not about David. He thinks he blew it again… that you are sorry that—it happened.”

“ _It,_ Lindsay? It? We fucked: it's not like we haven’t done _it_ before. You can say the fucking word.”

“Is that what you think? You really believe it was just a fuck?”

“I—I don’t—What does he think?” No admission, but Lindsay sees some hope there… curiosity… a little interest.

“That he’ll never be able to love again." There it is: the truth. "That he’ll die a lonely old man who is still in love with you." The whole truth. "That you’ll not give it a second thought. Of course, he will never say that.”

Justin’s cheeks flush. Lindsay bites her bottom lip. His eyes tear up and he turns away to focus on the painting. He feels his chest tighten and a huge lump begin to build. His vision is blurred now and the canvas looks like a blob. “I think I’d need him to say it.” He whispers.

Lindsay places her hand on his shoulder. She kisses the top of his head and breaths, “I’ll tell him," softly into his hair and walks out of the studio, leaving the man to his thoughts.


	18. Hot Green Sun

She sees Brian again that night when she comes to pick up Gus. Brian is pacing and frantic looking. 7:00 and Gus is asleep in the middle of his bed: too big to take a nap at Daddy’s but worn out by the excitement of the visit. Lindsay didn’t know what they had done, but Brian is the same a ball of nervous energy that he had been when she saw him that afternoon. She is worn out just watching him.

“How are you holding up there, Tiger?” She gives him a comforting smile. 

“What? Oh, he’s in here. We went to the park. And he’s had supper, I ordered in from that family place so he even ate a vegetable--beans. He was out as soon as he got warm and full. I was going to call and see if you wanted me to keep him tonight.” He says as he makes five passes around the apartment, ringing one of Gus’s shoes with his hands.

“Carry him to the car for me?”

Brian hands Lindsay the shoe and walks back up onto the platform. He carefully scoops up the long body of his sleeping son. Lean like his father, Gus isn’t a burden to carry. The little man stirs and rests his head on Brian’ shoulder. Lindsay gets the door and leads the way out of the loft and down the stairs.

When they are greeted by the cold night, Lindsay turns to pull Gus’s blanket over him a little more and catches the strained face of her oldest friend. “I talked to Justin and before you get mad let me finish.” She put one hand up to stop his protest. “He was using the studio when I got home, it wasn’t like I sought him out or anything.”

Brian lifted his eyebrows. He couldn’t quite muster a smooth look or a smirk. The questions, the hope, the fear of what she would have to say was clear on his face. At that moment he looked as innocent as the sleeping child in his arms.

“He said that you are going to have to tell him if you want him back.”

“Tell him?”

“That you love him.”

And there it was. It is what has always been there. The only thing that Justin had always wanted--always deserved--that Brian wouldn’t do. He had left twice because he couldn’t get it from Brian. He wouldn’t come back without it. Why was it so hard? Brian didn’t know. Maybe it was his pride: He’d lived with the bullshit motto for so long, he was famous for it… high and mighty… condescending son-of-a-bitch who laughed at anyone who dared claim that they loved, and now he had to say… to admit… that he was the idiot. Had been all along. And even though everyone who mattered already knew… and he knew they knew… saying it was something else.

The last year had changed things. He had grown more dependent and fond of David. He walked into a relationship with his eyes open—maximum amount of bullshit and all. He had stood in front of his firing squad at his thirty-fifth birthday and admitted that yes, he was one of the army of dickless fags and that he couldn’t help but be happy about it. Everyone had clapped and clanged their glasses together. David had pulled him close and kissed his ear. It was a happy day, but even in that moment Justin had been there with him, in the shadows of his heart. 

Brian continued to walk and Lindsay hit the button to slide open the side door of her van.

“Did he really say that?”

“No, I think _I said_ that you loved him but we all knew you would never say it,” Lindsay said as Brian dropped Gus into his seat and buckled him in. “Then _he said_ that he needed for you to tell him.” Brian looks at Lindsay with acknowledgement.

“It’s all he has ever wanted from me.” Their talk ended there. She threw Gus’s shoe into her passenger seat and dropped herself in on the driver’s side.

“Thanks,” he tapped the roof twice as Lindsay drove away.

Brian walked back up to his loft, grabbed his keys, and shut the door. His must up hair and dirty t-shirt would have to do. Time was up.

He drove to his apartment with no problem. He drove by it a couple of times after he heard that Justin and Daphne had moved into the place. He drove by again when she moved out and checked to make sure his name was still on the buzzer. He checked a few months later to make sure it was the only name. 

On the stoop with his hands shoved into his pockets, Brian exhales a breath that turns white in the night air. He pushes the buzzer and waits with locked elbows and dancing feet. 

“Yeah.” Comes the voice.

“Justin, it’s me, Brian.” He doesn’t wait. “I just talked to Lindsay. And you know… I came by to talk to you. I’m sorry about this afternoon. I meant to say… Look, I love you and you know--” He is cut off by the buzz of the door being let free. He wastes no time pulling it open and running up the stairs.

He reaches the door about the time it opens, revealing a pale Justin in the jam. “Brian? Sorry, my buzzer doesn’t work.” He steps forward and pulls the door back onto his shoulder not leaving room for Brian to come in. “What are you doing here?” He says twisting his pursed lips, raising his eyebrows, and fighting a smile.

Brain gives him a challenging look. Justin looks back at him. He isn’t going to budge. He stands his ground. He is going to have to say the words, right here, to his face. _So this is how it has to happen._ “Fine. I was saying before… that—I still love you—that I love you. That I want you… back.”

“Don’t you think that is for me to say? Of course you want me back. I was the one who left you, remember?” Justin says playfully.

“Cut the crap and let me in. We need to talk about the other day.” Brain says as he pushes past him into his apartment.

“I was just about to eat. Do you want anything?” Justin offers as if they had not missed a day.

“I like your place.” Brian said as he surveyed the living area of the apartment. 

“I’m sure you do.” Justin called back sarcastically from the kitchen. “Red or white?”

“Red—wait, what are we eating?”

“Ummm… tonight its… stir fry chicken with peppers and green onions.”

“I’ll take a beer.” Brian stands in the living room and talks toward the kitchen where Justin has disappeared. He doesn't know what he is supposed to do. He just knows that he has to do everything right. “Are we going to talk about this?” Brian asks trying to get back on track. He is feeling absurdly comfortable although he can’t for the life of him figure out what the hell is going on.

“I’d rather not.” Justin pokes his head out of the kitchen doorway. “You coming? It’s ready. Help me set the table.”

And that was it. No drama, or tears, or loud words. Brian walked back into his life. He came into the kitchen, rapped his arms around the love of his life, and gave him a soft kiss before grabbing two plates, a handful of napkins, and a bowl of steaming rice.


	19. Hot Green Sun

Brian’s hand trails across the row of plastic hangers. He fingers the sleeve of a shirt he recognizes from a particularly hot memory. “You realize that you can’t keep me here, that I will eventually have to go home, don’t you?” He says to Justin over his shoulder. “I don’t have anything to wear.”

“Here.” Justin answers by shoving a pair of cargo shorts at him.

“You’re kidding, right?” Brian crinkles his nose up at the offer.

“Just until I can wash your clothes.” He pushes the shorts at him again.

Brian leaves his hands at his side. “Good. You are kidding.” He crawls over Justin’s stripped mattress and stretches out onto his stomach. He pulls a pillow off the floor and bunches it under his head. “I’ll just wait here until you’re done.”

“You’ll just help me make the bed,” Justin chides and adds a playful smack to Brian’s bear ass. “You certainly were eager to un-make it.”

“I don’t think I have ever seen you eat that slowly before.” Brian rolls onto his back and smirks up at the young man. 

“Sure you have,” Justin corrects as he lowers himself to his knees at the edge of the bed. 

Brian watches as Justin runs a wet tongue over his lips. Justin takes the backs of Brian’s knees and pulls him to the edge of the bed, surprising Brian at how easily he is moved and positioned. But Brian’s mind is stopped before he can feel dominated, by a wet tongue sliding up his shaft and over his head: a long, slow lick that promises glorious torture in the minutes to come. His head rolls back and forth on the mattress in response. His fingers seek out Justin’s and wrap themselves around them. As the blonde hair begins to bob and Justin draws his full length slowly into his mouth, Brian pulls his knees up and rests his heels on the edge of the bed frame. 

Justin takes advantage of this new exposure. He lets Brian’s cock fall from his mouth and sits back a bit to admire the view before him. “God, you are beautiful like this.” 

Brian pulls on his laced fingers to encourage Justin to come back to him. He feels Justin’s breath roll over his sack. When the hot tongue offers a wide, flat, slow lick across his hole, Brian arches up off the bed as if burned. His thighs throb and a high pitched gasp escapes him. He feels a flat palm on his lower stomach pushing him back to the mattress. He looks down to see Justin’s eyes growing wide at him, bemused at his eagerness for this, his need. Brian closes his eyes and throws his head back into the mattress. Again the tongue crosses his hole, this time he is prepared and fights the urge to push into it. He feels the tip trace around the edge of his pucker. He can feel the folds tighten and release and tremble involuntarily. 

Justin’s tongue pushes in wide and flat and full. He can feel the man licking the skin within his channel. 

“God, yes.” 

Justin’s hand moves down Brian’s stomach and wraps around his shaft.

“Yes!” 

And Brian’s cum slides over his fingers and slicks his head with the first pass. Justin feels his tongue getting pulled in as Brian’s orgasm takes him. Justin smiles around his tongue as he continues to dip in and out. He untangles his hand from Brian’s and uses his hand to encourage the man to open his thighs.

Brian feels… like he may slip away into unconsciousness at any moment. Make-up sex had been great. His dick was sore and his mouth was raw and he was sure to have yellow bruises on his shoulders and thighs and back and head. And he had felt completely spent too many times in the last few hours to keep track of. He is exhausted and relaxed. And while that was just about too much, by the look in Justin’s eyes right now, it had not been enough. 

And so he lays on his back, sunken into the mattress, knees flopping to the side. He feels Justin’s smooth thighs move between his. He feels the mattress sink a little on either side of his head. His eyes do not move off of Justin’s. His mouth opens a little--a tiny gasp at the first push in. He moves is arms to hold onto Justin’s tight triceps. He blows out a breath, blinks hard, bears down, and then squeezes him from within. Justin’s eyes grow wider and he smiles down at Brian. Justin moves into an easy and slow rhythm. His breathing turns into a low growl that Brian is sure he is not aware of. Brian watches as the smile fades and his neck becomes strained. His jaw slacks and his tongue hangs out as he looks down at his prey. 

Brain leans up and kisses him on his bottom lip. He sucks his tongue into his mouth hard and bites down on it. He feels Justin’s hand on the back of his head. His fingers work through his hair and he pulls his head back. The force… the little bit of pain… it sends Brian over the edge again… untouched. The warmth on Justin’s stomach, the sudden tightness, feeling Brian wriggle, and hearing the whimpers from cumming so quickly and being so sensitive… it is enough for Justin. His head collapses onto Brian’s shoulder. His chest and ribs come flush with Brian’s body. A few fast and hard thrusts and Justin grows still on top of Brian. 

He stays like this for a minute. Brian releases his shoulders and taps on his arm. He feels Justin’s head moving before he sees it. Then Justin looks into Brian’s eyes as he breathes contently and laces his fingers under his chin to rest on Brian’s chest. He doesn’t make a move to pull out. He doesn’t look away, or clean up. They just sit there looking into each other for a moment. 

It is a full two minutes before Justin reaches down and pulls out. He rolls just enough to tuck himself under Brian’s arm. He pulls up a blanket and wipes it over Brian’s chest and stomach, then his own. He throws it back to the ground. 

“Seriously, I don’t think I have ever seen you actually wear shorts before.”

“I wear shorts.”

“I mean, for real. Not the gym or at the loft.”

“Justin,” Brian looks at him sternly, “I am not going to wear your shorts. I am going to go home.” He leans over Justin to grab for his lighter and cigarettes. “I should probably get some work done at some point.” He inhales deeply and holds the smoke in. Blowing it out he adds, “Let me pick you up tonight and we’ll go somewhere. Together.”

“Is that you asking me out?” Justin lets out a little puff of air that sounds like a held back laugh. 

“That’s me asking you out.” Brian confirms.

“You weren’t too convincing.” Justin reaches for the cigarette and takes a drag.

“Yeah, well. I just figured you were easy.” Brian looks back at him smiling.

Justin curls up his lips and shrugs. “Yeah, I guess I am.”


End file.
